Romeo and Juliet: Complete OppositesOreO
by kendrat199
Summary: A story of star-crossed lovers. Their interaction from the beginning was doomed for failure, yet hope remained for a happy ending.The obstacles exceed the cause, yet they try with uncertainty. An OreO Ororo/storm Remy/Gambit story.based on Shakespeare


**Disclaimer**: I don't any of the X-men. I wish I did because then I'd have Storm end up with someone worth her time.

**Pairing**: RemyxOroro. More come eventually.

**Genre**: Romance, Angst/drama, Humor

**Rating**: T

**Alternate Universe**: Sorry! No such thing as mutants here.

**Reviews**: Pretty puh-lease

**Homage**: Gambit+Storm Group on Yahoo. Join!

Also, based on Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet (R+J)

Let me tell you a tale that seems to be spun from old. It does not stem from Capulets versus Montagues, but something much darker and harder to define. People that sleep easy at night with their cares and stresses aimed at tests, exams, money, and housing foreclosure know nothing of the underground crime that engulfs the city.

* * *

_**Act I, Sc. I**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

"Do they think they can swindle us?" A large man around the age of fifty or so, lit a cigar only to let it burn. His thin lips formed an O that allowed the pungent odor of the smoke to form that shape. His thick black eyebrows rose as he was lost in deep concentration. He, Antonio De Vega, was not pleased. He sat around the small police department in a mahogany upholstered chair that squeaked under his every movement. Browns, golds, and various shades of black surrounded the 8 by 8 room.

"Apparently so, but we cannot do nothing...yet what can WE do?" A slimmer man asked only to be given a "you-can-say-that-again" look from the other. He stood at the opposite end of the desk, back straight, head up, arms to the side, palms facing the hem of pants. Military stance. He was twenty years Antonio's junior and his demeanor screamed both "Air force" and "Rookie".

"If they make us angry we can simply pull out our guns and-"

"-and shoot one of them." Charles Teymour finished for him

"Yeah, more or less. New York is now the safe haven for criminals and I for one think we should put our foot down before they think we're becoming lax." Another puff of smoke faded into the dim lit room. "Besides," he continued, "a lot of things can go wrong during an arrest. Tempers can flare, stress levels rise, it wouldn't surprise me if one of those guineas pulled a gun and I was forced to shoot to save my life." He smiled to himself, a slant of a grin to mark his ingenious plan.

"Retaliation could be immense-"

Antonio cut him off. "No one in the mafia kills a cop. No one."

"You may kill one or two, but do you know what will happen to us?" he waited for Antonio to answer the question. _Did he think it rhetorical?_. "How many judges does Don Fusilli have. One, two, three?" he asked rhetorically, and as soon as Antonio moved his cigar to the other side of his mouth to answer, Antonio murmured, "he has fifteen out of the twenty judges that reside here. This is suicide. We should just forget about the missing coke." Charles Teymour was no longer in military formation. He appeared to slack, his arms coming in front of him. He seemed trapped, scared, and confused. All of the three traits Antonio De Vega found most unappealing.

"Forget about the cocaine? Yeah, sure," he chided. "Better than that, let's forget about the other evidence conveniently missing in the evidence locker or let's forget about the John Does in the morgue who we haven't bothered to identify." His face was now turning red with rage. This whole scenario left a bitter tasting residue in his mouth, something the cigar could not over power. It was only a few ounces of cocaine that was delivered into the mob don's hands. To be more specific, it was found in a drug ambush and since he, the chief of police, had everything under lock-and-key, no one seemed to notice how little amounts of cocaine, heroine, pot, you name it, disappeared. Someone would start adding it up though, he was sure of it. Besides, having the don disperse it to his men to deal out on the streets and getting a vast interest without sharing the wealth to the chief himself was going too far. What next? Would he ignore the prostitutes working on 5th and Janell street and not get his fair cut of that too?

"This does not leave the room," he said

* * *

**_Act I, Sc. II_**

* * *

"Don't ever come here again, swamp rat! You're fired!" the owner yelled, pushing the young man from his door step. Vocation numero deux ended poorly. He ended up stumbling and grasping longingly as his pack of cigarettes flew and landed in the gutter. He picked them up hastily as he scrambled to his feet. They were moist and stained brown from the mysterious contents flowing into the drain. "Fuck," he mumbled, tossing them to the side.

"What happened this time?' an older man asked. His silver hair shaded his dark irises as he surveyed the streets or more importantly, the people. He watched as the young man sat on the dirty sidewalk, brown boots occasionally kicking things out of the cosmopolitan riviera of the gutter.

"You know filles homme, can' get enough of dis Cajun."  
The older man stood a foot from him, his back leaning against a newly added bus stop sign. "You couldn't wait until your shift was over to..." his hands did an elegant circle, "rendezvous with them?" His accent-Eastern European- was audible when he murmured "them".

"I didn' plan this out...it jus' 'appened." Remy Lebeau said, shrugging his shoulders casually. He really did not need a lecture about jobs and sex, because everyone in the "family" had more liasions than he could count, and they still managed to offer their services. He was surprised that he didn't get a lecture from the older man.

"Somehow Lebeau I highly doubt that. For a man who plans everything from minute detail in a heist, that is surely surprising." He breathed in the scent of potato and cheese pierogis from a small stand across the street. "You'll have to prioritize business and pleasure..and know that business comes first."

Erik Lensherr, a Polish cohort, was a man of great wisdom, but a man to fear. Remy Lebeau never saw him smile and his facial expression knew only a look of desp or rage. Re did not know his past, but knew it was pretty dark seeing a tattoo of a 9 digit number burned into his wrist. A _Prisoner of War_? he had thought when he first was introduced to the man. And now he thought it was something more severe, longer lasting. Still, despite the man's cold demeanor, he was ruled by honor and loyalty, something that Remy deeply valued.

"We needed dat shop for a base of operations." His reddish brown eyes narrowed as he formed a plan on how to get his job back without resorting to begging.

"Don't worry I won't tell your father." The man seemed to smile before it was replaced with a neutral expression.

"Merde, I'm 21 years old and I'm afraid as hell of disappointin' the 'family'"

A man, jittery from the cold or withdrawal bumped into the older man. All the spectators would think that some drug addict obviously didn't know what space meant and bumped into him trying to find his way to his drug dealer. However, Remy Lebeau knew otherwise. Where before the man with a forgettable face had nothing in his hands, he now sported a small bag of powder. And, Eric Lensherr now was counting hundred dollar bills.

"I dink I shall call you Magneto homme"

"You can explain your reasoning over pierogis and beer," said the older man. Remy stood up and followed him across the street to the isolated stand that stood right outside of an Irish pub. His trench coat flapped against the bitter cold December breeze.

* * *

**_Act I, Sc. III_**

* * *

"_My therapist said that I needed to come here...for closure. I trusted you...I let you in my house. My god, I let you near my children!_"

Her body tensed, her fingernails dug into her skin, she felt the pressure of her upper body leaning on her thighs. Her eyes widened.

"_You should've told me what you were..._"

"_Do you think you're the only one who feels betrayed?_" his eyes widened, exploring for regret, an apology.

She held her breathe.

"_I loved you Susan_." Her throat closed up. She found it impossible to blink, to breathe.

"_Real love...for the first time in my life. And to have you toss me out to the dogs just like that-_"

"_You're a murderer Teddy_!"

His tongue began to lithe its way in between his teeth, casually traveling along the base of his lips. He stopped. She inhaled. " _I think that's where you're right... 'Cause when you sent me here... in this place... with these people... it brought that old dirty bastard right back home. Like there was a candle... in the window... just waiting for me to walk up them front steps._"

He paused. "_You know, I'm going to get out of here someday. And when I do... don't think I won't remember what your front steps look like, Susan._ "

"Oh. My. Gawd!" Jubilee nearly jumped out of her seat as they paused Prison Break s. 1, episode 16 (Brother's Keeper) to replenish their low supply of popcorn. "Teddy can come up these steps any time, I wouldn't mind teaching him a thing or two!"

Scott had nearly choked on the kernels that he threw in his mouth. Had he heard correctly? He turned his attention to Jubilee in horror. He was the only male attendee and he hoped...he prayed, that she just forgot that. Teddy "T-bag" Bagwell was one of the most evil characters in the season. His crime: raping and murdering, although he was also a pedophile. Scott could imagine it now. Some guy with a mustache leaning against his Cadillac saying, "Hey kid, get in the car." And Jubilation Lee would do some sort of girly skip or however she moved and say, "Like sure! Here's my social security number, the keys to my room, my clothing. Hey is that a camera, I'll take pictures." Insert giggles in between. He shuddered at the thought. He knew Jubilee wasn't that dense, couldn't be.

"Eww gross Jubes! Now Michael. .gawd. I wouldn't mind giving him check ups."

Oh no. He thought, he was sure all the blood seeped out of his body. Not kitty! He looked for Piotr. Where had he gone? Ah, yes, to play basketball. Damn jubilation for corrupting the younger girl and them all (even the professor) to this loathsome, yet addicting show.

"Remember that episode where they were in the shower if only-"

"Enough!" he stood up. He hadn't looked this distressed since he sensed a task that was doom for failure or casualties.

"Oh, Mr. Summers," they stammered, their cheeks ablaze with embarrassment, "we forgot you were here."

He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. He had 30 minutes to go and another episode before the disc would be over. He was thankful that they made a promise to watch only a disc for a Saturday and Sunday. He hoped Ororo and Logan would come back from a luncheon, he needed back up...badly.

* * *

**_Act I, Sc. IV_**

* * *

Fresh Choice.  
A fork stabbed a plate of green, red, purple, and white. A lottery ticket of health: lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, oil dressing. No meat in sight. It faced a monstrosity: a full plate of penne pasta smothered in sauce (meat only).  
" I have no idea how yer not freezing." Logan gazed across the table at the white-haired damsel in front of him.

Milk chocolate shoulders shrugged. "I guess I'm not as attuned to the shifts in weather?" her blue eyes traveled until she met his gray ones. Her smile turned into a grin as the man across from her shuddered as another breeze swept the patio. Why the hell didn't they just wait 30 minutes to be seated inside. He needed whiskey.

"So I was thinking...what should we get Charles for his birthday..he's done so much for all of us." She began to dig into her purse, she thought she heard the buzz of a vibrating phone. She finally found it amongst planners and lists. She frowned.

"What is it?" Logan looked concerned.

"Scott's calling."  
"Don't answer!"  
"Logan..."she bit her lower lip, and had he been the one dating her he probably would've given her his entire life savings at that little action.

"Come on Ro' just ignore it. We never have.."he corrected, "you never have time to just relax. Whatever Scott is frustrated about can wait another 15 minutes." He noticed it. The devious spark in her eyes that he caused when she decided to travel down a path not layered in virtue and responsibility. He grinned.

"Okay, but if he calls me again, I HAVE to answer it!"  
"S'fair."  
"So me and Scott were thinking of some sort of literary journal he-"  
"Gay!"  
"It is not lame," she corrected his term that was nowhere close to political correctness.  
"He has a million of those Ro. If I were him and I had a shit load of magazines-"  
"Journals-"she corrected.  
"Whatever. Anyways, if I had a lot of those, another one would be for collecting, not for entertainment." He seemed satisfied as she began to ponder.

"Perhaps we should hold a group meeting."  
"Fantastic!" he growled. Her response was laughter. He liked hearing the sound of her laughter, rich, harmonious...

The maitre d' or rather a waiter since this was Fresh Choice walked to the only table not covered in ice crystals. "There's a phone for you." Ororo got up, a hand stopped her. "For the gentleman." Logan got up to see who would call him and why. He never got any peace, ever.

* * *

**_Act I, Sc. V_**

* * *

The two men walked out, matching each other in the amount of drinks. The older preferred whiskey or vodka, and the other, bourbon. Neither were hammered, but they should have been.

"Yours eyes wander...too much. Are you staking girls out or potential hits?" A white eyebrow lifted in curiosity.

"There's nuthin' wrong wit' lookin' at de girls in New York it'd be a shame if I didn."

"Yes, they are beautiful..." he looked down the street. The flicker of light illuminating from the chief of police's office.

"Yes, but beauty always 'as a mask. You show Remy a beautiful girl and her face will tell you of someone prettier. I'm through with love."

Erik Lensherr or Magneto as Remy liked to call him, laughed. It was a low rumble then it becam loud, obnoxious. "Love...you of all people would not know what that means...our professions skew that word."

"I suppose your righ'." They kept walking. He didn't like Lensherr laughing at him. What did he know? He heard the honking of a taxi cab. New Yorkers, he thought disdainfully. And then...and then he saw her. A beacon to be gazed at, traveled to...

"Mon Dieu," he stopped in his tracks. Erik Lensherr stopped only to see what he was looking at.

"What?"  
"Her..."  
"The brunette?"  
"Non"  
"The blond..."  
"Non"  
"The redhead?"  
"Non"  
"Stop playing these ridiculous games Lebeau..."he warned. His patience was getting thin. How long till his next appointment? 15 minutes.  
"De one wit' de platinum hair."  
"The black girl?' he said incredulously. He could feel the weather changing, an ominous sign.  
Remy shot him a quizzical look. "White, Black, Asian, what it mattah if someone look like dat, homme?"

Eric too noticed her, but put her to the side. Yes, she was exotic. Perhaps a model from New York City, a rare gem amongst the average...but the joining of the two was...very unlikely. Not in this business.

The young man made a step forward in her direction, lost in a trance. An arm forbade him from doing so.

"What's yo problem?"

The older man seethed. "You may sleep around and pimp yourself out to every girl...but to court a black girl...that'd be as worse as dating a Jew." He corrected, "this is not my personal opinion...but how do you think the Italian, catholic, violent Don Fusilli will take the news? These buildings have eyes....It's a warning you need to heed." He looked at his watch and began to walk away, shaking his head because he knew the young man wouldn't listen at all.

He crossed the street, not exactly looking as traffic moved as fast as molasses. He was blocked by a gate, but he could see her and she could see him. She had her eyes turned inside...hoping for warmth? Waiting for a boyfriend?

"What's a beautiful femme like you doin' in the cold?"

She noticed him then. Her blue eyes looked into his brown ones, the color brown that seemed more red...seemed to glow in the dark of December. It intrigued her. The man was four inches taller than her (she guessed), had auburn hair that fell to the nape of his neck (bed hair, she guessed too), a tanned complexion all hidden underneath a black t-shirt, slacks, and a leather duster. He wasn't bad looking, but neither were half of the people in New York, the place of success and failures. His accent intrigued her. French? Maybe.

His eyes widened at the sight of blue eyes. Were they contacts? He wished he was closer so he could lean forward, gaze into the blue hues that reminded him of a tumultuous ocean.

His gaze traveled to pouty lips painted with lip gloss...chap stick, he couldn't tell. He gazed at her long legs and guessed she was well over the average height for a normal woman.

"Lemme guess you're a model?" He heard laughter, he frowned.

"A literary scholar."  
"What?"  
It was her turn to frown. Yes, there may be hot guys in New York, but they definitely weren't intelligent enough to hold a conversation.  
"My major is literature with most emphasis on Shakespeare."

"Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!/It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night/ Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear/ Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear-"

She finished for him as if it was automatic.

" So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows/ As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows./ The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand/. Did my heart love till now?"

Ororo was impressed. Whenever she told men of her major or rather that she studied Shakespeare, they would a) shout the now cliche "To be or not to be" a quote from Hamlet or b) would recite poems and lines for whole minutes, claiming to be a professor in that study, and also claiming that they were twenty years younger, which was a facade.

"I would've never assumed you were familiar with Shakespeare." Her eyes widened with excitement-think about the talks, the questions, the debates! She could not get Logan, the Professor, Jean, nor Scott to do anything more than listen to her rambles. For Logan, his major contradicted what she spoke of, whatever his major was (he made a never-ending diatribe about it being undeclared). The professor was more enthralled by ethics and philosophy than to bother with tragedy and comedy or ambiguous iambs. Jean's major or profession was medicine- most noted neurology and genetics. And Scott's was law. No one matched her, but here he was...

"It's not right to assume, petite." He frowned. She seemed almost hurt and worried that he took it the wrong way, but then he grabbed at his chest as if her assumption was killing him. She laughed.

In reality, however, Remy had no idea what the words meant, what play it was from, who said what. At the tender age of seventeen he had been "wooing" or rather sleeping with a librarian, a woman also encased in Shakespearean plays, sonnets, Rimbaud, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, etcetera. And, after hours of lovemaking, she would repeat little verses...and those verses ended up getting memorized.

"Hey Ro. Scott's freakin' out. Do you want the bad news or the good news?"

Ororo turned her attention towards her friend, her team mate, her..."What is it?" she began expecting the worse. Someone lit something on fire. Someone was doing some harm to the children...

"Okay. Bad news is Scott is stuck with the girls...and the good news is we're here with a lot of time ta kill. I paid the bill. Are you ready?"

"Oh yes, but first," she turned her head expectantly towards the man with the mysterious appeal. She saw nothing but hasty shoppers trying to get Christmas presents early.

"What Ro."  
"Nevermind," she breathed in. There goes a partner, she thought, disappointed.

Remy Lebeau was proud of his senses. Hearing being the best. He had noticed a man walking in a rather determined direction towards the woman he was no longer talking to. He wasn't a waiter and so he guessed he was the "boyfriend". It was a good thing the guy didnt notice him, the last thing Remy needed was a public brawl. While she was thinking of more probing questions, he had ducked and then stealthily maneuvered to a large oak trunk. He watched them go and he wondered would he see her again and then he wondered what it mattered if he did or didn't.

The city had eyes...and the thought of that made the idea more appealing. He would see her, many more times...in public. As long as he did his service for the mafia, what'd it matter who he saw...who he was entrapped by.

**To be continued...**

_Next chapter....someday :)  
Till then, happy holidays._  
Kendra 3


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